her face was a mass of blood.
“I’ve got her,” the mad woman whispered to me. “Thinks she can handle anything up here, does she? We’ll see.”
She sat on the floor, her arms raised, her hands round Edna’s throat.
The raddled old woman tried to see what was going on, but she couldn’t. She hammered on the door with her hands, cursing in a rasping voice.
Edna was arched backwards, her heels digging into the rubber flooring, her head through the bars. Her hands clutched at the bars for support and to relieve her weight from her head. Blood from her face ran down on to the floor, dripped on to her Nylon hose.
The mad woman, grinning at me, not looking at Edna, began to take in and let out slow, long breaths. Her shoulders seemed to grow lumpy, sweat appeared on her face.
I hooked my fingers into the wire mesh of the screen, and watched.
The raddled old woman, her face against the bars, suddenly stood still, listening.
Edna’s face, where it wasn’t blood-stained, was liver-coloured. Her eyes stood out, blind. Her tongue came out blue between bluish lips. Her slender body writhed. One of her hands began to beat on the bars, mechanically, without force.
The mad woman nodded to me, closed her eyes and strained. Edna’s hand stopped beating on the bars. There was a muffled crack, almost immediately, a sharper one. Edna did not writhe now. She sagged, her head still trapped between the bars.